


The Detective And The Sea

by The Sign of Tea (NoPlastic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beach Holidays, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoPlastic/pseuds/The%20Sign%20of%20Tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waves, driftwood, and a violin that's never been played.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Detective And The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by faerymorstan.

The sea was grey and blue and sparkling in the sun, and the air smelled pleasantly of salt and seaweed. A mild breeze played with Mary’s hair, and the warm sand under her feet reminded her of the deserts and steppes of faraway countries. The water was not very warm, but Sophia seemed to be having a great time playing in the waves close to the beach with her dad watching over her.

“The captain was forty-eight years old when he lost this button from his uniform,” Sherlock’s voice was to be heard from somewhere behind Mary. She turned around and saw him picking up a small golden item.

“The man was married,” he added. “His wife lived in Canada. Well, one of his wives. The other two lived in Singapore and Greenwich, and he had two illegitimate sons in Madagascar.”

Mary chuckled.

“That’s awesome, Sherlock.” She loved the way he beamed at her praise every single time. “But that was the last deduction for today, alright? Come on, we agreed on that – no work while we’re on a holiday.”

“I wasn’t _working,”_ the detective protested. “Just occupying myself.”

“Well, fine. Now relax, and occupy yourself with something more holiday-like.”

“For instance…?”

Mary threw her towel at him (unfortunately it didn’t land in his face as intended, he caught it with grace), took a step back and posed in the sun like a photo model.

“What do you think of my new swimsuit?”

“Your swimsuit.” He frowned, but at least he actually looked at her and stopped analysing the flotsam. That was a success. “It’s… colourful?”

“Yes?”

“And very… skin-tight. By which I mean, it fits –.”

“Stop flirting with my wife!” John interrupted him, laughing. “I’m going to get jealous.”

It was a joke – of course Sherlock was allowed to flirt with Mary, since he’d been a part of their relationship for almost a year –, but the detective seemed to take it as a serious affront.

“I wasn’t flirting with her,” he said loudly.

“Sure you were,” John replied, still grinning. “You’re undressing her with your eyes, I can see it from here.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock hissed. He turned away and started to look for more interesting stranded goods. Then he apparently remembered he wasn’t allowed to do that, so he went over to their cooling box and started rummaging around in it.

“Beer,” he commented as he sorted pointlessly through the contents. “Beer. Beer. More beer. Did you only come here to get drunk?”

“It’s alcohol-free,” Mary said. The detective ignored her.

“Couldn’t you have brought something useful instead,” he muttered. “Like cocaine, for example. That would’ve made this day infinitely better. Why do we need all this? Chocolate. Wine gums. Apple juice. Sophia doesn’t like apple juice.”

“Yes, she does.”

“And since when does sunscreen need to be kept cool? Or the tidal calendar. Oh for God’s sake, there’s even more beer…”

“Why don’t you go and get an ice cream for Sophia?”

As expected, the words “ice cream” and “Sophia” were enough to get Sherlock’s attention. With a smile, Mary pointed a few hundred yards down the beach. There was a long queue in front of the ice cream stand already, mostly children in brightly coloured swimsuits. She knelt down to grab her purse, and produced a couple of coins from it.

“Here, Sherlock, I know you left your money in the holiday home again, so take mine. But not more than one scoop for her.”

“Then why did you give me much more than that would cost?”

“That’s for you, you git. I know Sophia’s not the only one who has a sweet tooth.”

The detective’s peevish muttering indicated that he was pleased although he wouldn’t admit it. He called for Sophia, carefully towelled her halfway dry, and together the two went to get their ice cream.

“He’s especially stroppy today,” John remarked while wrapping a towel around himself.

“I know,” Mary said with a smirk. “I wish he could have as much fun as we do. But he just doesn’t like it here.”

“Yes, he does. He said he likes it.”

“John, he _hates_ it.” Sometimes Mary thought what Sherlock liked to say about her husband was the exact truth: He saw, but he didn’t observe. It could be surprisingly difficult to explain the most obvious things to John.

“He _told me_ that he likes it,” the army doctor insisted stubbornly.

Mary shook her head and gave her husband one of the beer cans after he’d sat down on the beach mat next to her.

“He lied,” she said patiently.

“Why would Sherlock lie to me about that?”

“He was being sweet and nice in order to convince you to give him a blow job.”

“But I didn’t… Wait. Fuck. I did.” John shook his head and grinned to himself. “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t deduce anything bad about the ice cream seller at least,” he said while opening his beer can. “Or about any of the other customers.”

“Oh, I just hope Sophia doesn’t try to beat up the other kids again.”

There was a pause, then they both laughed a little.

“This family really is weird,” Mary admitted.

“Yes, but it’s the only one we have,” John replied.

That was true – while Sherlock still had a few relatives he got along with, Mary and John didn’t have anyone else than the people they had chosen to live with. Suddenly melancholic, they both stared into the distance, until Mary squeezed John’s hand and offered him some chocolate. He refused.

When Sherlock and Sophia returned, the little girl’s face was smeared with ice cream already, while the detective was slowly and deliberately working his way through his preferred flavours. They sat together in silence for a while, listening to the rhythm of the sea, until the two had finished eating.

“Come on, let’s go back into the water so we can wash the chocolate ice cream off your face,” Sherlock said.

Sophia went with him, and seconds later they were playing in the sea, splashing each other with water and giggling.

“Looks like he’s having a bit more fun now,” John whispered to Mary.

Sherlock overheard it and looked like he was going to reply, but in that moment Sophia nudged him and pointed at something in the water. The detective bent down and picked up a strangely shaped object, about twice the size of his hand.

“What is it?” Mary asked, but she got no answer; Sherlock only kept staring at his find. Sophia shrugged at her mother’s questioning look. With an exasperated sigh Mary stood up and went to see for herself what had happened.

“Sherlock,” she said and touched his shoulder lightly. “Are you alright? What is it that you’ve found?”

Even on closer inspection, the object the detective was holding didn’t make any sense to her.

“It’s a violin,” Sherlock answered in a flat tone.

Now that he’d said it, the piece of driftwood was indeed recognizable as the body of a violin, broken and covered in shells and seaweed. However, Mary didn’t manage to get any more explanations out of Sherlock. He stayed right where he was, with the sea washing around his ankles, inspecting the broken musical instrument as if it was the answer to every single question in the universe. After a long while, he came back to the beach, holding the violin to his chest. He sat down close to Mary and John, but he didn’t say a word for the rest of the evening.

*

“Where is he?” John asked later that night, back in their holiday home. He’d just tucked Sophia in and read stories about the sea and mermaids and pirates to her until she’d fallen asleep. That was usually Sherlock’s job, but the detective was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s outside on the patio,” answered Mary, who sat on the sofa with a blanket and a book about ballistics. “Perhaps you should get him a blanket, or a cup of tea. It’s getting cold.”

“Was that one of your suggestive hints that I should talk to him?”

“Yes,” Mary said. “Good observation.”

“Alright. Would you like a cup of tea as well?”

After preparing three cups of tea in the kitchenette, he brought one to Mary, took a blanket from the sofa, and went outside with the other two cups.

“Hey,” he said. “Cup of tea?”

Sherlock sat on the old canopy swing, the broken violin in his lap. He glanced up and nodded wordlessly. John sat down next to him and they sipped their tea in silence.

“It’s never been played,” Sherlock said eventually after he’d put his empty cup down.

He stared down at the sad remains of the violin in his hands, and it began to dawn on John why it upset Sherlock so much. A valuable, elegant musical instrument, made to play the finest, clearest notes and weave them into complex melodies – and it had never got the chance to be heard. It had been ignored. Neglected. Lost, or even thrown into the sea on purpose. No audience had ever praised and admired its worth, no musician had come to handle it with precision and care.

“Does it remind you of yourself somehow?” John asked carefully. “Your fear that people will ignore you?”

Without a word, Sherlock put the violin down next to his teacup and buried his face in his hands.

There was not much John could say. He didn’t have any first-hand experience with feeling like an undervalued genius, or the right words to make this particular genius understand that he didn’t have to fear being thrown into the sea of ignorance.

So he decided to do the only thing he _could_ do: He put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and drew him close.

“It’s alright,” John whispered softly in his ear. That had to be enough.

Sherlock tensed up at first, but then he allowed himself to lean against John and rest his head on his chest.

The night sky had turned a deep purple, strewn with stars. A gentle breeze made the trees rustle and whisper. In the distance, the waves rolled steadily onto the beach, and the canopy swing rocked gently back and forth in the same rhythm.

“This place is a nightmare,” the detective muttered under his breath. “I want to go home.”

 


End file.
